


Chapter Nineteen: Gods and Punks

by CavalierConvoy



Series: MTMTE Series One: Shoot Straight with a Crooked Gun [20]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One, Transformers Generation Two, Transformers: Beast Machines, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Catharsis, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Other, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/pseuds/CavalierConvoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without conflict, Artemis finds that all she can do is talk and drink about sols gone by. But while Trailcutter is urging her to look forward to the hard-earned peace, a conversation with Fortress Maximus opens old wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter Nineteen: Gods and Punks

When your mind goes blank in the pouring rain  
And you can't get back on your feet again  
Well, your girlfriend tells you the world is dead  
And it just ain't workin' inside your head  
Now get along, little doggie, get on  
No one else is gonna sing your song  
You can fuck recovery  
'Cause you're already gone  
—["Gods and Punks" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=347M0hcgjcw)by Monster Magnet, from _Mastermind_

Observation Deck  
The _Lost Light_  
Now

"And so, according to Ambulon, faulty heat sinks may be the cause of my migraines." There was no difference between flask or bottle; glasses were for formal occasions. Artemis eyed the bottle, a wry smirk stretching her mouth. "Though likely this doesn't help matters in the morning."

"Going to have them checked out?"

"Yeah, supposed to see First Aid when things quiet down in the medibay."

"Not Ratchet?" By his own grin, Trailcutter already knew her response.

"Ratchet doesn't like me."

He passed her the bottle. "C'mon, now, Ratchet likes everyone. It's a known fact that the grumpier he is at you, the more he likes you."

"By that logic, he and Drift have gotta be berthmates." She took a swig, then passed the engex back.

"On this ship? Who knows — people do unlikely things when in an enclosed environment for extended periods of time. But, on a happier note, you know what?" Trailcutter cheered, lifting the bottle in salute. "Everyone lives! It is a good sol!" 

"Not certain about Nautilator; Ambulon mentioned they might bring him up to ICU," Artemis stated, taking the bottle and taking a swig.

"'Might'? I'm kinda hoping for 'will'."

"As is Ambulon." She propped her elbow on one knee. "I envy you guys. Here's me, standing orders: see enemy combatant, need to neutralise said combatant. Move on to next enemy combatant. Repeat. One gets desensitised. And here you are, trying to save everyone's life." She leaned against his arm. "I feel like I'm so out of the loop. Like, 'try not to kill the guy who's trying to kill you and your friends.' Great in concept, but on the field? Doesn't work. It'll get you scrapped."

He brought his arm around her shoulders. "Peace takes time, Art. To rebuild. It'll happen. It just takes time."

"And there lies the problem," she admitted. "What does one do when their life is built on conflict, and then the one thing they've known all their lives is taken away from them? What do I — " she caught herself.

His right hand reached over, touching the side of her helm and coaxing her to meet his gaze, sunset orange illuminating the single-pane visor. "I can't speak for you, Art," he smiled, "but what you're doing now? Right now, right here? Talking, drinking, looking at the stars, sharing that moment with a friend? For me, it's not what was taken away. It's what has been gained."

"Optimus's crew was a philosophical lot, weren't you?" she grinned, leaning against his gesture. "Can't say I'm not liking your observation, either."

"By the time you came around, Earth had already been explored," Trailcutter presumed with a shrug.

"You got to explore the wilderness; we had satellite television." She chuckled, taking another swig and, with that, breaking contact, she offered him the bottle. "Amazing how twenty stels can change a world."

"Ever gone exploring, Art? It's like getting lost on purpose."

She shook her head, but followed the gesture with "But I'd like to."

 

*

Later

 

Artemis stumbled into the hab unit she shared with Cav, and considered crashing at Trailcutter's, as stepping over the pile of sleepover victims was proving troublesome in her inebriated state. Somehow, three full-sized Autobots — Slapdash, Smokescreen, and Rollout — managed to fit on the floor, the latter of the two with video game controllers dangling from their fingers. They must have picked up where they left off after the Temptoria campaign. The vidscreen was on, the title screen to an Earth-based first person shooter looping. Artemis flicked the screen off and stepped over Slapdash, careful not to knock over the tower of empty cans between him and Rollout as she approached her recharge slab.

She should have crashed at 'Cutter's. Those idiots used her slab at the impromptu bar.

"Frag it," she growled, once again traversing over fallen bodies and dead soldiers, exiting the hab suite. The brig was looking better and better to spend a couple of megacycles to dry out and get some rest. And 'Cutter was likely sawing wood by now; she didn't want to rouse him just for a spot on his floor. 

She staggered to the back of the brig, taking the cell furthest from the captured 'Cons. This end of the brig was standard bars as opposed to an energy field, intended for low-risk deviants: drunks, troublemakers, and other overnight stays; it was also in clear sight of the higher risk prisoners, as a scare tactic. 

This particular cell was the one where she and Trailcutter met, two sols into the trip, soon after the sparkeater incident. She got blitzed, professed her undying love for Magnus, got into a fight with Whirl, who with all intents and purposes did instigate it, and might have confronted Xaaron in a not-quite-friendly manner, and might not have gone in that order. The object of said undying love dragged her off, over his shoulder, and unceremoniously dumped her in within the confines of this cell, with its then-current occupant, in for the same infraction, minus the confession, confrontation, and fight. 

The next morning, when Red Alert came to claim them, they had stayed up most the night, telling one another their tales of how they came on board the _Lost Light_. 

"That was quick." Max's resonating baritone echoed from across the way; she craned her head to look at the speaker. "Welcome back."

"Hey, Max," she greeted. "My roommate decided to have a party without informing me. Figured this was as good as any to get a couple of megacycles' recharge. And with Red boxed, Magnus took over the chief of security."

"Well, that's a kick in the ball bearings," Fortress Maximus grumbled. "What happened to Red?"

 _Keep it simple._ "Accident. Don't know much else. They decided to box him until Rung returns to duty."

"Rung? He's okay?" Max perked up. 

"I haven't seen him yet, but according to Magnus, Ratchet reported a full recovery."

"Oh, thank Primus," Max exhaled. "I...don't know what happened."

"Yeah, you were in a dark place, Max." Artemis sighed. "I can understand. Not the depth you were in, but enough to recognise it." She unhitched her flask, lifting it up in offering. She caught his nod, and she slid it across the floor into his cell. 

"What's your breaking point, Art?" Max questioned. "What makes you get on your knees and beg for death?"

"An interesting topic in a brig shared with a bunch of third-rate 'Cons," she chortled. "My breaking point is revenge. Strip me of those I care about, leave me alive. That's when I lose who I am, and become what I should not be."

The silence following was broken by the flask sliding back through her bars; she picked up the object, half-drained.  
"Not going to ask mine?" he questioned.

"Nope — none of my business. You can tell me if you'd like, but I don't like to ask those types of questions." She took a swig. "Want another?"

"I'm all set, thanks. Sorry I asked."

"I'm okay with it, Max. I've made my peace to who I am. I came on board to be honest with myself, to be with friends I trust." She harrumphed. "Make new ones."

"Mind if I ask where your dark place is?"

"Thunderwing's _Warworld_ ," she answered without hesitation. "Before that: Kaon, when I realised the Functionists in the Senate was just getting rid of me, hoping I get caught, get slagged. Both are dark places for me, for different reasons. I left Cybertron to avoid both."

"You don't have to answer my questions."

"Feels good to get slag off my chest. Been too long since I've been in therapy."

"Me too." Max chuckled. "I'm glad Rung will be okay. I was responsible for what happened to him. I — "

"— was in a bad place, Max. I know. You don't have to convince me." That left a sour feeling in her fuel tank. Max had surrendered. Why did Rodimus call the shot? Why did Rodimus let Swerve take the shot? As much as she liked Swerve, there was one 'bot should never have access to heavy artillery, as proved earlier this sol. No matter — it was over. Rung survived. Still, doubt crept into her spark.

"Not many would choose to drag their own afts into a brig for a nap."

"It has its benefits. And just to clarify, if I don't answer you, please don't take offence; I might have passed out."

"Understood."

"Good, because I'm a wee bit tipsy and I like talking to you. I'm just preempting myself."

"It's okay. I'm just...having issues in recharge."

"They come after you when you offline your optics, don't they?"

There was a lengthy silence. "Yeah."

"Doesn't take a head doc to know that's why I drink. Drink to passing out, they don't come after you. Repeat." She laced her fingers behind her head and stared at the ceiling. "I know it's self-medication. I know it doesn't help in the long run. But what's the alternative? Being told by someone who never faced unconventional warfare that it's all in your head? You're damn right it's in our head, and that's the problem: we can't get away from it. Once we go offline, they're waiting for us to begin anew. And some sanctimonious gashole who never saw battle is trying to convince you that there's nothing there. No, I'm not talking about Rung, just to clarify. He's a good 'bot. Like him a lot. But yeah, after the Legion conflict, the Senate tried to shuffle me to one of their shrinks. Guess what I did during the first and last session."

"You punched him."

"Got it in one."

"That's a very Wrecker thing to do."

"I'll take that as a compliment." She dimmed her optics. "Mind if I ask you something? I won't take it personally if you don't answer."

"Worst I can do is say no, right?"

"Did anyone give you a straight answer to why they waited three stels to send back up?"

Silence. 

"We had to threaten them to help us in handling the Legion mess. To us, they were hiding in Iacon, pretending everything was sunshine and rainbows, that everything was under control, that if everyone did as instructed, Maximo would be defeated and we'd have our new golden age. We had to tell them a Warworld was coming into our system, and three Wrecker-crewed ships was all that stood between it and Iacon. And yeah, in all technicality, that was my doing. But it woke them up, that the citizens weren't going to sit back and carry on. 

"I don't know if anyone told you, Max, but the Senate crumbled after the conflict. They scattered, they ran away. Some got off world before the lock down, some were arrested. Red on red, Max. Something I'm not used to. This wasn't a brawl in the pub; this was full out uprising. And the Senate fell — it was bloodless, it was clean, it could have even been considered peaceful. But it left us in a bind. We had no clue what the Senate knew behind their doors. Even those we had believed to be leaders turned out to be pawns — Xaaron, for example. On board this ship. This was the guy who tried to manipulate me into doing his bidding during the conflict. Turned out he was just as much of a victim as the rest of us. It was all about power, Max. They were sinking back into the Functionist thinking that started this whole Primus-damned mess in the first place. And we rebelled. The Senate didn't forget Garrus-9; they never made the incident public until after we overthrew them. That's why you got the Wreckers and not the Elite Guard. As soon as we found out, Springer rallied available troops to the cause, but after the Legion conflict, we were scattered. I was on clean up detail out in the Fringe when we heard the reports of what happened on G-9, and by then, it was coupled with the casualty list." She exhaled. "Sorry about that, Max. I'm drunk and unloading my frustration and guilt on you, and I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Art. It's...good...to know the Senate got its due."

"Bee — Bumblebee — and Prowl were setting up a new government when we left Cybertron. I know they were upset that Rod and Magnus decided to leave. I frankly had enough of the war." She laughed. "I feel like a hypocrite: I love a good fight — I've gotten to the point where I've beaten someone within an inch of his spark and with no regrets. But I chose that path, the 'Con on the receiving end chose that path, and all is good 'cuz we both are in our element and know the pros et contra of the battle. Victory or defeat. Life or death. That line is what makes it worth living. Then you get war. Win at all costs. No longer is it you and the other guy. You become a pawn. You throw a sucker punch, no big deal; then you got the ones who take prisoners. And — you know, I'm getting into a bad place now."

"You get those who take prisoners, treat them with a firm hand, but within the perimeters of common decency. Then you get the ones who play games. Those who test the limits. Those who see experimentations, revenge, playthings." Max delivered his statement in monotone, as though reading from a script. 

"That's where the line is crossed," Artemis agreed. "Where it no longer becomes a battle...it because hell."

"Were you war-forged?" Max questioned.

"No, just forged with a pugnacious streak. No on board weapons, save for the ones I added later. Not much room for weapon allotments. Search and retrieval, Functionists called me a courier. I wanted to be a lawyer first, but realised I loose my cool too easily. So then I thought a cop would suit my talents. But frag if the Functionists rose to power."

"So they found a use for you."

"Seriously, what do you do with a courier who gets into fights for fun? I was Iacon-forged — can't get anymore Autobot than that. No on board weapons means no sparring sports, regardless of how many fights I got into. Gotta do something, especially when said 'bot's showing signs of anarchistic rebellion. So you woo said 'bot with a prestigious sounding position: we need a covert agent to infiltrate these so-called Decepticon ranks. Hell, I was already tight with known dissidents. Here's me thinking that, frag, maybe be able to make a difference, sure, why the hell not? And about two decacycles into the assignment ... I killed a NAIL, one I knew, from one of my classes at university. And that's when I realised it was survive or die. I decided to survive."

"They fragged us both over, Art, didn't they?"

"They fragged everyone. Oi, Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise when you get out, we can have a conversation, a drink? I'm really glad to find someone who understands."

"Yeah, Art. 'Night."

She may have imagined the last aspect of the conversation.

 

NEXT CHAPTER: Add It Up


End file.
